Three Wise Monkeys
by Scullspeare
Summary: Sam and Dean help Bobby foil a coven's plan to ally with demons, and a vengeful witch turns to an unusual source to make sure the hunters pay. Plenty of h/c and brotherly banter, and Cas makes an appearance, too.
1. Chapter 1

**SUMMARY: **_Sam and Dean help Bobby foil a coven's plan to ally with demons, and a vengeful witch turns to an unusual source to pay back the hunters. Plenty of h/c and brotherly banter, and Cas makes an appearance, too._

**RATED**: _T for mild swearing_

**SPOILERS**: _Timewise, set mid-to-late Season 6, but no spoilers**. **References to canon events through the end of Season 5**.**_

**DISCLAIMER:** _Sadly, the Winchesters are not for sale, therefore I don't own them. Many thanks to Kripke & Co. for allowing me to play in their sand box with their toys._

**A/N**: _Hope you enjoy. Many thanks and a big hug to Harrigan for the beta and constant support. You are a gem. I tinkered after the beta so any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone._**  
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**THREE WISE MONKEYS  
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"Oh, I am so sick of this crap." Dean stumbled through the motel room door, dropped the weapons bag on the floor and flopped onto the nearest bed. "Where is it written that the Winchesters get the shit kicked out of them every freakin' time? I mean, son of a bitch – we're the good guys, right?"

"That's kinda the point – of the shit kicking, I mean." Following Dean into the room, Sam scowled at the blood-soaked cloth he'd just had pressed to his temple before tossing it into the trash can. He swayed noticeably as he reached behind his back to pull his gun from the waistband of his jeans. "Bad guys just don't like us."

"What's not to like?" Dean toppled onto his back, throwing an arm across his eyes. "I mean, come on. I'm awesome."

Sam snorted as he sank tiredly into the chair in front of the window and placed his gun on the wobbly motel table.

"That was good work today, boys." Bobby stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb as he cast a worried glance from Sam to Dean. "But we still came way too close to getting our asses handed to us."

"Close only counts when you're tossing hand grenades." Dean pushed himself up onto his elbows and squinted over at Bobby. "But speaking of asses, how's yours? That witch must've thrown you twenty, thirty feet when you started reciting that spell."

Bobby shifted uncomfortably, and rubbed his hip. "The less said about my ass the better. I'll live. What about you? You're gonna have a world-class shiner in the morning. How many of me are you seeing?"

Dean rolled the one eye not swollen shut. "One – most of the time." He shifted his gaze to Sam. "How 'bout you, Sammy? That little blond witch clocked you but good."

"What?" Sam seemed kind of dazed as he looked over at his brother.

Dean frowned as he sat up. "I said, you doing okay in there?"

"Oh. Yeah. Just didn't hear you." Sam stood up with a groan, grimacing as he tried to rake his fingers through hair matted with blood. "Think I've got blood in my ear. I'm gonna, um, wash up, then hit the hay."

Dean watched Sam move slowly toward the bathroom. "Blondie had to be like four feet tall. How'd she manage to smack a redwood like you on the side of the head?"

Sam glared at his brother. "She had a big branch-"

"Her broomstick?" Dean grinned.

"A branch, Dean…" Sam sighed, suddenly looking a little sheepish. "She, um, took me out at the knees. Then when I went down, hit me-" he hissed as he touched the side of his head, "here." His glare at Dean's snort slowly morphed into a smile. "Wait... I saw the witch who decked you. She must have been, what – a hundred and fifty?"

"Shut up. She may have been the Cryptkeeper's older, uglier sister but she had a mean right hook." Dean changed the subject by turning to Bobby. "What do you think the coven's next move is – 'Plan B' or revenge?"

Bobby scratched his forehead under the brim of his trucker's cap. "That's a damn good question."

Bobby had gotten word that witches from a large east coast coven were gathering in the woods outside Salem, Mass. An alliance had been formed between the witches and a demon faction. The witches had agreed to be possessed, a coupling that would magnify their own powers through those of the demons inhabiting them. Once possessed, the new witch/demon hybrids would then scatter across the country, recruiting other covens as hosts to strengthen their numbers in the building war between Heaven and Hell.

At least that was the plan until Bobby and the Winchesters intervened.

First, Sam and Dean had snuck into the coven's compound and spiked the ceremonial meal with an ancient herb mixture – courtesy of Cas – designed to render the witches permanently unfit as demonic hosts.

Then, the three of them had drawn a giant Devil's Trap around the ritual meeting place, leaving a small opening to allow the demons to enter. Once all the demons were inside, they'd closed the trap. As the poison inside each witch forced the demons to vacate their vessels, the hunters reused the trick that had helped the Winchesters destroy the demon army at the Monument, Colorado police station: they broadcast an exorcism.

That got rid of the demons, but they still had to deal with a coven of livid witches. Even after another spell temporarily neutralized their powers, the witches had fought tooth and nail – in some cases, literally – leaving the hunters in their current battered state.

Bobby shook his head. "That spell we cast should leave'em without their powers for about 24 hours, give us time to recharge and get the hell outta Dodge."

Dean pulled a hexbag from his jeans' pocket. "Then for," he glanced at the clock on the nightstand, "the next twenty-two hours, these things are useless."

Sam nodded as he pulled out his own hexbag. "Yep. Without their powers, technically, they're not witches." He looked over at Bobby. "But most of them seemed pretty damned determined to take our heads off even after they lost their powers. What's to stop them coming after us anyway, you know, with baseball bats or something?"

Bobby shrugged. "Nothing. But they were running on adrenaline tonight. When they come down, I think they'll hold off. They know we're hunters, far from a soft target, so they'll wanna be powered up before they take us on again, and by that time we should be long gone."

Dean tossed the hexbag onto the nightstand. "Well, they ain't the first to want our heads on a platter, and sure as hell won't be the last."

Bobby turned to go, then paused and looked from Sam to Dean. "Couldn't have done this without your help. I'm just sorry that-"

"Don't." Dean leveled a mock glare at his old friend. "It's not like you haven't gotten your ass kicked helping us out from time to time."

"Well, there's that." Bobby grinned. "Get some sleep. I'm gonna meet up with Johnny Walker for a nightcap, then do the same." With a nod to the brothers, he stepped out of the room and pulled the door closed after him.

Sam flipped the switch on the bathroom light and stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror. Dried blood from the jagged gash just behind his temple caked his ear and matted the hair all along the side of his head.

He peeled off his jacket, tossed it back into the room onto a chair, and then turned the hot water on full force. After soaking a facecloth, he scrubbed the blood from his face, hissing as the heat and friction met torn skin.

Behind him, Dean was moving around the motel room. He said something, but his words were muffled by the sound of running water.

Sam shut off the tap. "What?"

"Whiskey. Want some?"

"Yeah." Sam walked back into the room, still scrubbing the blood from his face.

Dean recapped the bottle after pouring two generous glasses. He handed Sam his before grabbing his own and sitting down on the end of his bed. He winced as he pressed his fingers into the bruised skin around his black eye.

Sam tossed the facecloth into the bathroom sink, then took a large gulp of the whiskey, grimacing at the welcome burn. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Dean. "Nice shiner. I'm driving tomorrow."

"Like hell you are. By morning I'll be fine." Dean downed his whiskey in one gulp. "And FYI, you look like crap."

"Jerk." Sam finished his drink, then kicked off his boots. "I just need sleep." He pulled off his long-sleeved shirt, walked over to his bed, then emptied his pockets onto the nightstand. After shucking off his jeans, he pulled back the ugly gold bedspread and slid between the sheets. He was out by the time he'd pulled up the covers and rolled onto his side.

Dean stood up and stretched, then crossed to the dresser. He poured himself a second drink, downed it, then undressed quickly and fell into bed. He gave Sam a quick glance as he reached to turn off the light; his brother was already snoring softly. He nodded, flicked off the light and, like Sam, was asleep before his eyes were fully closed.

**xxxXXXxxx**

The witch pulled three tiny bags from her pocket, then shoved one inside each of the three cloth dolls – poppets – laid out on the table.

The woman sitting opposite her was older, her thick, dark hair heavily streaked with gray. She reached out and pulled the dolls toward her, her arthritic fingers tying closed the pockets where the bags had been inserted into the crudely-made, white cotton figures. When she spoke, it was in heavily accented English. "And what is it these men did that has angered you so?"

The younger woman leaned forward impatiently. "They stole from us our place in the new order." Hatred turned her pretty face ugly. "But they know magic, and took our powers. I want revenge, and I don't wanna wait until my powers return. I need you to find them for me."

The older woman's expression remained neutral but her dark eyes narrowed, deepening the lines that age and emotion had etched around them. "So, I was not invited to be a part of this _new order_, but now you are impotent, it's my help you seek."

"You never wanted to be part of it, Magda, but…" The young witch weighed her words carefully, "it was not my place to invite or exclude you." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "They fear you, you know? Your Roma ways are a mystery to them, but they know too well the power you wield. To blend that kind of power with those of a demon…" She shook her head. "If you were to be part of the new order, my sisters feared that you would become the most powerful of all, that they would soon answer to you."

Magda gave a low chuckle. "Your words are smooth, young Serena, but there is more self-interest than truth behind them." She held the younger woman's gaze. "On one thing you are right. They did not ask because they knew my answer would be no. Demons are not to be trusted. Had this plan worked, they would have consumed you. You would be a prisoner inside your own body, your powers used at their whim, not yours."

Serena shook her head. "You're wrong. This was not simple possession. We were to be a new race, a hybrid – more powerful than either demon or witch. And we will be again – once we reclaim our powers, once these hunters pay for what they did."

Magda studied the young woman in front of her. "Dark magic can be intoxicating, but when mixed with revenge, its effects are most often deadly."

"Look," Serena shifted impatiently. "I know you and my mother both liked to play in the light, do nothing heavier than cause mischief, but there's something bigger at stake here, so… You have a life debt to repay, and I want it repaid today. Find these men."

Magda glanced down at the dolls laid out in front of her. "While you choose not to see it, these men, they saved you."

"Repay your debt." Serena's smile was cold. "A Romany is only as good as her word, right? My mother saved your life, which means you owe her. And because she died before you could repay her, the repayment comes to me. Now reveal these hunters, or I tell every witch I know that Magda's word is meaningless."

Magda shook her head sadly. "I think your mother would be disappointed in the dark path you have chosen but you are right, I am indebted to you." The old Romany gathered up the dolls. "Each of the bags you placed inside these, they contain something from the men you seek?"

Serena nodded, her excitement evident now she was getting what she wanted. "Blood, skin from where we scratched them, a torn piece of clothing…It's all there – something from each of them."

Magda held the dolls tightly before closing her eyes. "I see them… and they are worthy adversaries." Her eyes opened slowly. "Did you know they walked amongst you?"

Serena frowned. "Of course they did. We fought them after the demons were destroyed."

Magda shook her head slowly as she again closed her eyes. "No. I see them in your camp much earlier, masked by magic and your own arrogance, not the cover of darkness. But what is it they are doing?" Her head tilted as her mind's eye strained to decipher the actions of the three men. "Ah, I see. They poisoned your food."

"Poison?" Serena scoffed. "They didn't poison us. We're fine."

"You are not." Magda's eyes slid open. "The poison was not to take your life, but to forever pollute your vessels as hosts. There will be no second chance for this _new race _you spoke of_… _not for you, not for your sisters. These men made sure of that."

The young witch looked horrified. "No. That's not true. They don't have that kind of power."

Magda shrugged. "I have no reason to lie. Just as you and your sisters are allied with demons, I sense that these men also have the protection of a higher power. It is through that alliance they beat you." She stared hard at Serena. "Had you not been blinded by greed for power, you might have taken more care, seen through their glamours, seen this result. But you were careless, and now it is done."

Serena's devastation quickly turned to fury. "I don't believe you, but that doesn't change the fact that these men will pay. Reveal them to me – now."

Magda stared at her for a moment, then put down the dolls and pulled a small, elaborately decorated knife from her pocket. "Watch carefully." With the knife, she slashed her fingers then, muttering ancient words under her breath, marked each of the dolls with her blood. She nodded, satisfied, then pushed the dolls toward the younger witch. "There. I have marked them."

Serena frowned. "Marked them? How? What does that mean?"

Magda waved her hand over the poppets. "The answer is right here. Do you not see?"

Serena's eyes flashed angrily, but she said nothing. She reached forward to touch the dolls, then closed her eyes. Her frown only deepened as her eyes snapped open. "I don't see them. Where are they?"

"I see their past, their intentions but as for where they are…" The old Romany smiled. "Like you said, these men know magic. They are masked to me. I cannot tell you where they are. So I have marked them. Decipher the marks, and you will know what to look for."

Livid, Serena shoved back her chair and stood suddenly. "This is how you repay a life debt…with riddles?"

Magda shrugged. "You asked me to help you find these men, and I have given you the means to do so. But I have no quarrel with them, so it is you who must do the work. The debt is repaid." She pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her pocket and used it to wipe the blade off her knife. "Of course, since you have no powers, they will not be masked to you as they are to me. You could look for them as civilians do – knock on doors, ask questions…"

"You mock me?" Serena leaned across the table. "You are playing a dangerous game, old woman," Her eyes glittered with fury. "You will pay for this. Just like these men. On that you have my word." She stormed out of the trailer that was Magda's home, slamming the door after her.

"Your arrogance will be your downfall, young Serena." Magda gathered up the poppets, then glanced at the door the witch had just disappeared through, "and mine, I fear. But do not underestimate your quarry. Even marked as they now are, these men will not easily be beaten."

**xxxXXXxxx **

Serena paced in front of Magda's trailer, trying to rein in her temper. The meeting had not gone as planned. It was supposed to be a quick visit: Magda would repay the debt, tell her where the men were, then she and Claire would find them and get payback.

Instead, she had nothing but riddles and lectures in morality – from an old gypsy woman, of all people.

A shiver ran through her as she recalled Magda's words: "…_to forever pollute your vessels as hosts. There will be no second chance for this_ _new race…" _

Serena shook her head. No, it wasn't true…it couldn't be. It was just more head games fueled by the gypsy's fear of demons, by her jealousy of the power the coven would soon possess.

But if the hunters had been sneaking around their camp, had slipped something into their food, she needed to know what – and how to reverse its effects. And that meant she had to interrogate the hunters before she killed them.

But she still had to find them. Magda said they were _marked_, but what the hell did that mean?

No. Serena shook her head. She had no desire to waste her time figuring out gypsy riddles. She had something far more productive in mind.

She turned back to Magda's trailer, her face twisting into a cruel smile as she climbed onto the step and twisted the doorknob.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Sam stretched under the covers, then scowled when the sheets pulled loose from the bottom of the bed and his bare feet met cold air. He groaned and curled up his knees. Once, just once, he'd love to have a bed that fit him.

He slid deeper beneath the blankets, wrapping them tightly around him and, without opening his eyes, listened for any signs that Dean was moving around. There were none.

Sam frowned. As much as he wanted to stay where he was, sleep away the exhaustion that the night, so far, had failed to erase, he couldn't settle. His head felt muzzy, like it did when he was battling the flu, and there was a growing knot in his stomach that said something was off. He pushed away the blankets and peeled open his eyes as he turned toward his brother's bed, squinting against the bright light forcing its way through drapes that didn't quite meet in the middle.

Dean was still asleep, sprawled on his stomach, arms tucked under his pillow, his right hand no doubt wrapped around the hilt of the knife he routinely kept there. Sam often wondered how he did it without cutting his hand in half, but he'd never seen his brother with so much as a scratch.

He glanced around the room: The salt lines in front of the door and along the window sill were both unbroken, the protective sigils they'd drawn in chalk on the walls still in place. Sam rubbed his eyes and yawned as he turned to the old digital alarm on the nightstand between the beds. It read 9:55 – far later than they usually woke up, but not too surprising since it had been well into the early hours of the morning before they'd finally fallen into bed.

His frown returned at the strange silence that seemed to envelop the room. Dean had bitched about the room's heater sounding like a F-18 taking off, and had threatened to rip the alarm clock from the wall, complaining that the constant ticking as the numbers flipped over was like Chinese water torture. Now both the heater and the clock were silent. The only noise was a strange, muffled howl, like wind on the far side of a closed door, or like the sound you got when pressing a shell to your ear.

Sam sat up and threw back the covers. He screwed his eyes closed as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, and grimaced at the nausea the simple movement caused. "Dean, wake up. Something's-" He froze, his eyes snapping open, his heart racing.

He was speaking, but he couldn't hear his own voice. "Dean, wake up…" He repeated the words but, again, heard nothing.

Sam clapped his hands together hard. His palms stung with the impact, but there was no sound. Breathing heavily, he stared at his hands then, out of the corner of his eye, caught sight of the heavy, old book on witchcraft he'd left on the nightstand. He snatched it up and threw it against the wall opposite the bed. Several pages fluttered loose as the book hit the wall, then dropped onto the dresser beneath, but there was no accompanying thud. The book fell in silence.

In shock, he turned slowly, then jumped, startled to find Dean sitting up in bed, staring at him. Sam swallowed, forcing out words that seemed stuck in his throat. "I… I can't hear, Dean. I can't hear."

Dean's right eye was still swollen shut, the purple and red bruising around his eye socket deepening to indigo and black over the eyelid. His left eye, though, was wide open and locked on his brother, the dilated pupil virtually hiding the hazel-green iris.

Dean's mouth moved as he said something, but Sam had no clue what it was. "I don't know what you're saying, Dean. I can't hear you."

Dean punched the bed in frustration, his chest rising and falling noticeably as his breathing sped up. He raised a hand, tapped the side of his good eye, then waved his hand, up and down, in front of his face.

Sam went cold. "You can't see." He leaned forward, his heart racing even faster. "You're…blind?"

Dean gave a terse nod, his fingers curling into fists.

Sam ignored the churning nausea in his gut and the low, steady hum that filled his head as he pushed himself off his bed and sat down beside his brother.

Dean's focus shifted toward Sam as the mattress sank under his brother's weight.

He said something and, this time, Sam had no trouble reading his lips because he was thinking the same thing.

"Yeah. The witches. They did this. Some kind of…spell or curse? But how? We yanked their powers." Sam frowned as he tried to decipher what Dean what saying. "Say it again."

Dean did, and this time Sam got it. "Bobby?"

Dean nodded, then held up his thumb and finger to his head, mimicking a telephone.

"Right. I should call Bobby. Make sure he's okay." Sam stood up and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. He'd scrolled down to Bobby's number when the obvious hit. "I can talk to him, but I can't hear a damn thing he says." He turned to Dean. "I'll text him."

Dean's WTF expression was clear.

"Right." Sam raked his fingers through his hair. "It's Bobby, the guy who still has a Commodore-64." He nodded as Dean made a 'Gimme' gesture. "Okay. Good. I dial, you talk."

Dean nodded.

Sam punched in Bobby's number, then pressed the phone into Dean's hand. He watched as his brother lifted the phone to his ear, tried to read his lips then frowned as he watched frustration quickly set in. "What? What's wrong?"

Dean shook his head, listened a moment longer then shoved the phone back at Sam.

Sam took it, his frown deepening when Dean clumsily grabbed his arm. "What? What'd he say?"

Dean shook his head, reached out for Sam and pulled him closer. He tapped him twice on the chest with his fist, then gestured toward the door of the motel room.

Sam quickly put the pieces together. "Bobby didn't answer. The witches could've got to him, too. I'll go check on him."

Dean nodded, pointing again toward the door.

"I'm going, I'm going." Sam pulled on his jeans and jammed his bare feet into his shoes. "Just…stay put." He ignored Dean's bitchface, quickly crossed the room and yanked open the door, almost colliding with Bobby who was standing in the doorway, fist raised as if about to knock. "Bobby! Why the hell didn't you answer your phone?"

Bobby held up a small coil notebook. On the displayed sheet of paper he'd scrawled: _Voice gone – and it ain't laryngitis_!

Sam's stomach did a somersault. "The witches?"

Bobby nodded curtly.

Sam swallowed. "I can't hear… Dean, he can't see."

Bobby's eyes widened at the news, worry mixed equally with shock as he glanced from Sam to Dean. He tapped Sam on the shoulder and gestured at his brother.

Sam turned around to see that Dean had pushed himself up and was now standing between the beds. His mouth moved and while Sam couldn't tell exactly what he was saying, there was no mistaking the gist: _What the hell's going on?_ "Bobby's here. And yeah, the witches got him, too. He…he can't speak."

Dean looked like he wanted to hit something, but he just took a step back and sat down suddenly when the back of his knees hit Sam's bed. He shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands in another WTF gesture.

Bobby tapped Sam on the arm. When Sam turned around, he was writing in the notebook. He showed the page and this time he'd written: _They're screwing with us - Three Wise Monkeys?_

Sam frowned, puzzled for a moment. Then he got what Bobby was suggesting. "Oh, man…that's warped."

Bobby nodded then pointed again at Dean. The frustration over not being able to see what was going one was painted clearly across the elder Winchester's face.

Sam walked over to his brother. "The witches are screwing with us, Dean. It's the Three Wise Monkeys… You know – Hear no evil, See no evil, Speak no evil. Whoever cursed us, robbed each of us of one of our senses."

Dean muttered something unintelligible to Sam, but he needed no translation for his brother's two raised middle fingers.

Sam turned back to Bobby. "So how the hell do we fix this?"

Bobby shrugged, then wrote again in his notebook: _Figure out who did it, reverse it_!

Sam nodded, then pointed to the table under the window. "Computer's over there. I'll put the coffee on."

**xxxXXXxxx**

The dark had never bothered Dean.

When he was very little, Mom had told him angels were watching over him so he'd always felt safe. After she died, he'd lost all faith, all belief in angels, but he had Dad – and Dad's growing collection of guns, knives and other weapons that he knew would protect him and Sam from whatever came after them, night or day.

Around the age of three, Sam had gone through a phase where he was scared of the dark. Dean hated lying to him, telling him there was nothing to be afraid of, especially when he knew damn well there was, but he'd gone through the motions to reassure his brother. Whenever they checked into a motel room, they looked under the beds and in the closets. Then when Sam went to bed, they turned on either the bathroom light or one on the dresser. The light stayed on until Sam was asleep.

Then, when Sam was around five, Dean had gone to turn on the light and Sam had sleepily mumbled, "No." As Dean turned around in surprise, Sam just snuggled down under the covers, yawned and, with his eyes closed, said, "Don't need the light, Dean. Got you." It was a non-issue for both of them from that point on.

Dean remembered waking up six feet under after Cas yanked him out of Hell. He was terrified, but more by being trapped in that confined space, the dirt raining down on him as he frantically clawed his way out, than by the pitch black broken only by the weak illumination of his lighter.

But this…this was different. It was dark, and there was no light to turn on.

He'd woken up confused, his still muzzy brain thinking power outage. But as he shook off the haze of sleep, he'd realized that, whatever time it was, there should be some kind of light – whether it was the emergency lights in the parking lot outside their room, or the morning sun poking in through the threadbare drapes.

He relaxed his grip on the knife under his pillow and blinked as he lifted his head, wincing at the pain radiating through his injured eye. The old witch who'd decked him wore a big-ass ring and he blamed that for most of the damage…

Dean inhaled sharply. Damage. Could the injury have stolen his sight? He'd lost count of the number of shiners he'd earned doing his job, but while a black eye often inhibited his vision, he'd never been blinded.

He jumped when he heard a loud clap behind him. "Sam?" Dean rolled onto his back and listened, only to jump again when he heard a loud thud, followed by the sound of something heavy falling. He sat up suddenly. "Sam, what the hell's going on? I can't see."

When Sam answered, his voice sounded strange. But it wasn't the flat tone that sent a chill spiraling down Dean's spine; it was his brother's words: "I… I can't hear, Dean. I can't hear."

It was then Dean realized that his blindness has nothing to do with physical injury, and everything to do with the witches.

After Bobby showed up, Sam had begun tracking the witches who had been part of the ceremony. Without their powers, it was unlikely they were directly responsible for whatever hex had stolen their senses, but chances were they were working with whoever was. Logic said find one, find the other.

Bobby, meanwhile, was poring over some books on witchcraft he'd retrieved from his truck, looking for any mention of a spell or hex that could steal senses and, more importantly, a way to reverse it.

For anything that needed a phone follow-up, the two of them would pass along the information to Dean. Then, Bobby would dial the number, hit the speaker button and listen in and take notes as Dean conducted the interview. When they were done, Bobby would pass the notes to Sam to fill him in.

It was tedious work, and Dean's always limited supply of patience was rapidly waning. He knew his blindness was temporary, adamantly rejecting any thoughts to the contrary, but he hated that it had stolen so much of his independence: Bobby had to dial the phone for him, Sam had to make him coffee. He'd snapped at his brother twice for babying him, immediately regretting it, but… he was the caretaker, damn it. _He_ looked after his family.

He'd insisted on moving around the room under his own steam, brusquely batting away proffered helping hands. He'd paced out the distance between the bed and the bathroom, then the bathroom and the table by the window. He'd added a few bruises to his shins in the process, but it was a small price to pay for reclaiming a little self-sufficiency.

Then Sam had handed over his recently purchased iPad, onto which he'd downloaded a voice recognition app designed for the visually impaired. That took Dean off the sidelines and into an active role in their research.

After five hours, they had twenty possible locations charted on a map where the witches could be holing up. The now familiar sounds of Bobby flipping a page in his notebook and scrawling in it were followed by Sam's voice. "You're gonna go check'em out? All of them? Solo?" Sam exhaled loudly. "Come on. That's gonna take forever. You-"

"I'm gonna call Cas."

Bobby relayed that information to Sam.

"Cas kinda has his hands full, Dean. You know – war between Heaven and Hell. You think-"

"He'll help us." Dean hated the atonal timbre of Sam's voice since he'd lost his hearing. God, he'd teased the kid mercilessly when, as a young teenager, his voice had broken. He'd be speaking, then all of sudden, he'd squeak. Literally squeak. Dean remembered laughing so hard once, he'd fallen off the bed.

Sam, understandably, had been less than impressed. His recent growth spurt had already made him a world-class klutz, tripping over his own feet on a regular basis. His squeaky voice was just one more thing to be self-conscious about.

But Sam had had the last laugh. He'd outgrown his brother and his voice had settled into the deep, rich pitch that Dean had given thanks for more than once when it was raised in a warning shout while on a hunt.

But now, unable to hear for only a short time, it unsettled Dean just how much the cadence had flattened, how words ran together, how the volume swung wildly from barely audible to almost shouting. Dean hurt for his brother…and for his own inability to fix him. So the sooner they were all fixed, by whatever means necessary, the better. And Cas could help with that.

"Dean?"

"Look, maybe Cas can fix us up, then we don't have to worry about the damn witches. He brought Bobby back from the dead, didn't he? Next to that, this should be a piece of cake." Dean lifted his head toward the ceiling. "Yo, Cas, who art fighting in Heaven. We're in kind of a bind and could really use your help, so drinks are on me if you get your feathery ass down here."

He waited a moment, but there was no sign of the angel.

Dean exhaled impatiently. "Look, I know you're busy but we're gonna be a lot more use to your cause if you lend us a hand, here. So…please…could you-"

"I'm here, Dean." The angel's voice was accompanied by the now familiar flutter of wings. "What is it you want?"

Dean's head snapped toward to the sound of Cas's voice. "Well, the smackdown last night with the coven of witches didn't go exactly as planned."

"I'm over here, Dean." Cas's voice, sounding puzzled, now came from right beside him. "I heard you destroyed the demons."

"Yeah. Mission accomplished on that front. But, um..." Dean sighed as he shifted toward Cas. "Long story short – the witches hexed us. I can't see, Sam can't hear and Bobby can't speak. We're kinda hoping you can do something about that."

He jumped when a hand touched his head, by his injured eye. Heat and a pins-and-needles sensation spread throughout the side of his face, but faded quickly, taking with it the pull of injured skin and all pain.

"Well?"

Dean blinked, then shook his head slowly. "Nothing." He was unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. "Still can't see squat."

"I feared as much." The mattress bounced as Cas stood up. "Hold still, Sam, while I repair your wound." There was silence for a moment, and then Cas was back in front of Dean. "Your physical injuries are healed, as are Sam's, and Bobby no longer limps. But your loss of senses is the result of a hex. That's not something I can fix. You need to find the perpetrator of the spell in order to lift it."

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "Well, that's the $64,000 Question, isn't it?"

Cas sounded puzzled again. "What does that amount of cash have to do with it? You think you can buy-"

"It's an expression, Cas." Dean looked up to where he hoped Cas was still standing. "Trust me, we're trying to find the witch bitch who did this, have been since we woke up like this. But we did a little hexing of our own. The witches we went mano-y-mano with yesterday are still without their powers, meaning they can't be directly responsible."

After a rustle of papers, which Dean assumed was Bobby feeding Sam crib notes on his conversation, his brother cut in.

"They must be working with someone who, for whatever reason, wasn't invited to the big pow wow. We've tracked other covens where they might go underground till their powers return, and looked into reports of rogue witches who they might turn to for help. We've got about twenty possible locations – so far."

There was another rustle of paper, which Dean surmised was Sam or Bobby handing over the map to Cas. "If you can't fix us, think you could do a little recon? Save us some time and let us know where we should be looking?"

"I think I can help." Cas's response was followed by the flutter of wings.

Dean turned his head, listening intently. "What? What just happened?"

"He's gone." Sam answered, just before there was another flutter of wings. "And now he's back."

Dean shook his head. "Damn, Cas. If you weren't such a lazy ass time-waster, you might get more stuff done."

"I don't waste time, Dean." Cas sounded hurt. "In fact-"

"Man, we gotta work on your sense of humor." Dean shifted toward Cas's voice. "You find any of them?"

"I found all of them. It appears you've upset them."

"You think?"

Cas sighed. "Yes. I suppose it was inevitable since you destroyed their plans to create a new race of evil that-"

"Cas." Dean fought to keep his voice even. "Who hexed us?"

"I don't have a name, but I believe it was a gypsy."

That took Dean by surprise.

Sam, too, by the sound of his voice. "A gypsy?"

"Yes. One of the Roma people, if you prefer." The bed dipped as Cas sat down again beside Dean. "I visited each of the places you marked on the map. In several, I overheard the witches talking. Well, plotting your demise to be exact, but they appear to be waiting for their powers to return before taking action. But, according to more than one witch, it was a Romany who fulfilled a debt by hexing you, supposedly to make you easier to find. But, either this gypsy did – what's your expression, Sam? – a _piss poor_ job, or, as you, Dean, might say, the witches are a few fries short of a happy lunch, because they are unsure what they should be looking for. Hence the reason there has been no retaliation thus far."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "First, it's happy meal, not happy lunch. Second, what do you mean, they don't know what to look for? She didn't just tell them, you're looking for three men – one blind, one deaf, one mute. How many of those combos can be wandering around?"

Cas shifted on the bed. "Well, technically, you're not wandering around – you're holed up in here. But, from what I overheard, I don't believe she told them exactly what she did to you. The witches are angry because she was so cryptic.

"From my experience, the Roma have no love for demons, which would explain why the gypsy witch wasn't part of the ceremony you interrupted. But they do have a very strong sense of honor. If one was indebted to a witch for some reason, and was asked to repay that debt by revealing your whereabouts, she would be honor-bound to do so. Perhaps being vague is her way of fulfilling her obligation without handing you over on a silver tray."

"Platter… It's silver _platter_." Dean leaned forward. "Let me get this straight, she did this to… _protect_ us?"

"It is a logical conclusion." Cas stood up and appeared to be pacing again. "It has forced you to stay in this room, therefore you have remained safe."

"I'm blind, Cas." Dean was incredulous. "Sam can't hear and Bobby's had his mute button pushed. Forgive me if _thanks_ isn't the first word that comes to mind. We -"

"This Romany witch – did you find her?" Sam unwittingly cut off Dean's rant.

"Yes." There was a rustle of paper as Cas tapped his finger on their map. "The gypsy camp is here."

"What did you see? What did she say?"

"I could not enter." Cas sat again beside Dean. "The camp is protected by angelic sigils."

Dean frowned. "How the hell would a gypsy know about angel-proofing?"

"It is unusual, I'll admit." Cas's voice was typically deadpan. "But the fact remains, it is."

Dean shook his head. "Never mind. Doesn't matter." He pushed himself off the bed. "Zap us over there."

Cas sounded surprised. "I told you, Dean. I can't get in."

"No, but we can. Just drop us at the curb, we'll take it from there."

"Dean, wait." Sam's voice was closer this time. "We can't just go barging in. Even overlooking our obvious…handicaps, we know jack squat about Romany hexes and spells. Don't you think we should do a little homework before Cas drops us on the front lines?"

"According to Cas, this gypsy witch is on our side. And since she's our best shot at fixing these _handicaps,_ I say we go now." Dean shifted impatiently as he waited for Sam's reply. "You and Bobby grab a gun and let's go."

The rustle of papers said Sam was reading Bobby's notes. "Look, the site Cas pointed out is like a 30-minute drive from here. Once we get a little more ammo, just in case she turns on us, we can drive ourselves over there."

"What Sam says makes sense," Cas added. "I could get you there, but I can't protect you once you go in. It would be best if you had some insurance."

"Fine, head back to Heaven, to whatever you were doing up there. We'll take care of this." Dean sank down onto the bed. They were right, and he knew it. He was just so sick of the helpless feeling that came with not being able to see, he was willing to toss every basic rule of hunting out the window and charge in…blindly. He snorted at his unspoken pun. "But one hour, that's it. We find out what we can, then we go."

**xxxXXXxxx**

Bobby watched the boys work.

Sam looked like he always did when researching – completely engrossed. It was only when he stopped to ask a question or share information that his current handicap became apparent.

And Dean was still, well, Dean. Bobby couldn't help but smile as he listened to him use the voice recognition software. It was a good program that worked well, if a little too slow for Dean's impatient taste. And the more frustrated he grew, the more colorful his language became, further confounding the program.

'_Did you say sandwich_?' the electronic voice asked. "No, you son of a bitch," Dean snarled in reply, "I said _son of a bitch_." '_Recalculating_,' the program chirped in response, causing Dean to toss the tablet across the bed in frustration.

Bobby knew too well the study in contradictions that was Dean Winchester. He was so much more than the driven hunter, ladies man and smart ass that most of the world perceived him to be. Those were masks, worn interchangeably to hide the vulnerabilities beneath: his love for and need of family, his unflagging loyalty and that mile-wide protective streak that had led him to take on Heaven and Hell, literally, in defence of those closest to him.

In the so-called normal world, these were heroic traits, strengths of character. But to hunters, they were weaknesses, ripe for exploitation.

But no matter how practised he became at slipping on a mask, at heart, Dean would never change. Bobby's smile softened. He was too much of a protector by nature. Even now, blinded by this spell, struggling to maintain both his composure and independence, his concern was still more for Sam than himself.

While pacing out his way around the room, he'd collided with Bobby, who was coming out of the bathroom. Bobby had patted his shoulder in a universal 'No worries' gesture, but Dean had grabbed his arm before he could walk away. 'How's Sam doing?' he'd hissed. 'Just squeeze my arm if he's good – all things considered.'

Bobby had squeezed his arm, then added another pat on the shoulder for emphasis.

Dean nodded. 'Good. But if anything changes, if he's hiding anything from me, if he's hurting…you find a way to let me know, you hear me?'

Bobby did.

Course, he didn't miss how Sam tracked Dean's movements around the room, either, wincing in sympathy when Dean collided with a piece of furniture, smiling softly when he successfully circumnavigated the room under his own steam and rolling his eyes when Dean batted away his offers of assistance.

The brothers had been through some rough times over the past few years but now, despite everything that each was going through, they were in sync, and it did Bobby's heart good to see it.

"Think I got something… Some Northwestern prof did his dissertation on Roma history and culture and there's a whole section on curses."

Sam's voice pulled Bobby from his reverie.

Sam said nothing for a moment as he clicked through a few more pages. "Check this one out – it's said to be one of the most famous Romany curses. '_May you wander over the face of the earth forever, never sleep twice in the same bed, never drink water twice from the same well and never cross the same river twice in a year_.' Sound like anyone you know?

"Yeah." Dean drained the last of his coffee and clumsily returned the empty cup to the nightstand. "Maybe ol' Yellow Eyes was part gypsy. You got anything a little more useful?"

Bobby scrawled the last part onto his notepad and showed it to Sam.

"Hang on…." Sam scanned a few more pages. "Okay, here we go. Seems that gypsies, like in voodoo, often use dolls to carry out their hexes. The dolls, called poppets, usually contain something belonging to the victim – nail clippings, hair, that sort of thing."

Dean frowned. "If they did use dolls, what've they got of ours?"

Sam was obviously on the same wavelength because he answered before Bobby could write down the query.

"For us, I'd say they've used blood, skin or hair. We all got scratched and banged up fighting the witches. Wouldn't have been hard for them to find something."

Bobby scribbled on the page and showed it to Sam: _Destroy the dolls, break the hex?_

Sam nodded, then turned to Dean_. _"Each hexed person needs to hold the poppet representing them and read a Reversal of Misfortune spell. When the spell's finished, you burn the poppet and, shazam, curse is broken – according to this, anyway."

"You find one of those spells? 'Cause we should memorize one in case these… muppets are behind the hex."

After Bobby's translation, Sam nodded. "Yeah, there's a couple listed here."

"Good. Let's do it." Dean swung his legs off the bed, "Then we go meet this gypsy."

Bobby wrote again in his notepad, this time a single word: Protection?

"Hang on, Dean. Bobby's right." Sam turned back to the computer. "We need to protect ourselves. If dolls are involved, great, we know how to break this hex, but we've got nothing to stop the gypsies tossing another spell at us. We don't know for a fact they're as friendly as Cas seems to think." He looked over at Bobby. "What the hell's the gypsy equivalent of a hex bag?"

Bobby turned to a book he'd been reading a few moments earlier. Flipping back a few pages, he handed it to Sam and tapped a passage on the right-hand page.

Dean was puzzled by the silence. "What? What's going on?"

"Bobby found something." Sam read quickly through the passage. "Okay, each of us needs to carry a twig from a willow or a rowan tree."

Dean scowled. "Rowan tree. What the hell is that? The only Rowan I know is that Mr. Bean dude."

Bobby flashed him an 'idjit' look and motioned for Sam to keep reading.

Sam did, and then nodded. "Okay, this sounds a little easier to get our hands on. Each of us needs to wear a mirror. It will repel a hex if one is directed at us, reflecting it back on whoever is casting it."

"Good to know." Dean snarked. "Grab your purse, Samantha. Who knew your compact would come in handy some day."

Bobby chose not to transcribe that, writing instead. "Get ready. I'll grab supplies from the drugstore around the corner. Be back in five."

Sam nodded, and turned to fill in Dean.

Yanking open the door, Bobby paused to glance back at the boys. He briefly considered ditching them and heading out to the gypsy witch's camp solo. He still had his eyes and his ears, was more than capable of sneaking in there without them but, if these poppets were involved, each had to be in possession of the cursed doll when the reversal of misfortune spell was read. If the brothers were with him, they could get the spell done that much sooner, and it would be all hands on deck for the trek home – something that would prove useful if they had to fight their way out of there, again.

He nodded to himself as he closed the door. All hands on deck it was.

**TBC...**


	2. Chapter 2

**SUMMARY: **_Sam and Dean help Bobby foil a coven's plan to ally with demons, and a vengeful witch turns to an unusual source to make sure the hunters pay. Plenty of h/c and brotherly banter, and Cas makes an appearance, too._

**RATED**: _T for mild swearing_

**SPOILERS**: _Timewise, set mid-to-late Season 6, but no spoilers_**_. _**_References to canon events through the end of Season 5_**_._**

**DISCLAIMER:** _Sadly, the Winchesters are not for sale, therefore I don't own them. Many thanks to Kripke & Co. for allowing me to play in their sand box with their toys._

**A/N**: _Many thanks and a big hug to Harrigan for the beta and constant support. You are a gem. I tinkered after the beta so any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone._

**THREE WISE MONKEYS****: CHAPTER TWO**

"Dude, don't fight me on this." Sam exhaled slowly. "We agreed – it's the only way it's gonna work. Now, take my arm."

Dean sat in the passenger seat of the Impala, turned sideways, his feet on the ground outside. Sam stood in front of the open door, his hand wrapped around his brother's arm as he tried to help him up. Dean wanted to pull from Sam's hold, tell him, 'Get off. I can do this myself.'

But the fact was, he couldn't do it himself.

Dean didn't scare easily. Facing down monsters, facing death – the stuff of nightmares for so-called normal people – was just part of the job. But this…this was different. Once he stepped out of the car, he'd lose all frame of reference, all independence.

He'd quickly figured out their motel room, and riding in the Impala, he was on even more familiar turf. He'd turned on the stereo and flipped over a tape without a second thought, and as Sam drove, he'd listened to the comforting rumble of the Chevy's engine, knowing when she was shifting gears, and when Sam applied the brakes. It was like any one of the thousands of times he'd snoozed in the passenger seat while his brother took a turn behind the wheel.

But once he got up out of his seat, once he closed the Impala door, it would all be different. He'd be completely in the dark, literally and figuratively, and totally dependent on Sam.

"Dean, trust me, man. I'm gonna be your eyes, just like you're gonna be my ears." Sam's voice softened. "We can do this. But if you wanna stay, that's fine. Me and Bobby, we'll go in there, see what's what, be back as soon-"

"Shut up, Sam. I'm coming. No way am I sitting this one out."

Sam couldn't hear Dean's protest, but the smack on his arm conveyed the same message.

Dean blew out a breath, latched onto Sam's arm and hauled himself out of the car. His heart was racing and his knees didn't seem to want to lock, but somehow he stayed standing. Sam guided Dean's hand to the crook of his left elbow, where Dean grabbed a fistful of Sam jacket.

"We're gonna walk about a hundred feet up this road, then cut through the woods into the camp so we won't be seen." Sam couldn't quite mask the concern in his voice. "We'll take it slow. Bobby's on point, I've got my gun. You hear anything hinky, squeeze my arm and point in the direction the noise is coming from. You need to stop for any reason, squeeze my arm twice. We can-"

"Sam, shut up." Dean smacked his brother's chest, made an impatient 'just go' gesture, then quickly latched onto his arm again. He heard a click as Sam took the safety off his gun.

"Okay. Road's gravel, fairly loose, but should be an easy walk. Then we have to cross a culvert and climb a small hill, about a thirty-degree slope. Looks a little muddy so watch your traction. I'll give you plenty of warning if there are any obstacles. Here we go."

Dean's heart started racing as they began walking. It was such a simple thing, putting one foot in front of the other, but when you couldn't see where that foot was going…

Sam was in full-on protective mode. Once they left the road, the warnings came frequently – "Big root coming up, get ready to step over it" or "Low-hanging branch, duck…now!" He steadied Dean whenever he stumbled, which was more frequently than Dean cared to admit. Hell, he'd been steadier staggering home after downing a bottle of Jim Beam.

"Keep it together, Dean," he muttered to himself. He concentrated on each step, on planting each foot firmly before taking the next; he matched his pace to Sam's by sensing the slight swing of his brother's arm. And he listened – to the crunch of gravel under his feet change to the crunch of dry leaves and twigs, to the differences in Bobby's breathing and Sam's, one made audible by age, the other by stress – and for any potential threat.

He and Sam had been backing each other up all their lives, but never quite so literally as at this moment. Sam would have no idea if something snuck up behind them, so he had to watch their sixes – metaphorically speaking.

And so, Dean listened.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Sam had a headache, and he blamed it on the silence.

He glanced through the trees as they walked, eyes peeled for anything that posed a threat. It was late afternoon now and the woods were cool and shaded, dappled sunlight highlighting the forest floor where it filtered through the leafy canopy.

He flashed back to the wendigo hunt, his first case after leaving Stanford, after Jess's death. He recalled tracking the creature through a forest much like this one, but those woods had been full of noise. There were insects buzzing around their heads and birds flitting through the trees. There were the chilling cries of the wendigo as it mimicked familiar voices to lure them closer. There was Dean snarking with Hailey about not wearing shorts, and why peanut M&Ms were, in fact, a food group.

Now there was nothing but the dull roar of silence that filled his head. It was like being underwater, the outside pressure muffling everything and slowly suffocating him in the process. He wanted nothing more than to break the surface and drink in the sounds as he gulped in a big lungful of air.

Sam glanced over at Dean. His brother's eyes were hidden behind sunglasses – a suggestion from Bobby to prevent eyestrain – but his expression was a study in concentration. Sam couldn't help but smile; there was nothing weak or helpless in Dean's demeanor. He was frustrated, sure, even pissed at the whole situation but, sighted or not, he was still a hunter, determined to stay in the thick of the action, driven by nature to protect his brother and Bobby in any way he could.

He watched as Dean tilted his head to the left, then the right, listening carefully for any approaching threat. For Sam's part, he scanned the forest, peering through the trees, searching for any signs of movement, any hints of the gypsy camp they sought.

And then he saw it, in a clearing through the trees. "We're there. The gypsy camp is just up ahead."

They walked a few more yards, then Sam stopped suddenly, bringing Dean to an immediate halt beside him. Sensing something wrong, he gave Sam's arm a questioning tug. "What? What's going on?"

Sam couldn't hide his surprise. "The camp, it's … deserted.

In years past, the Romanies would have travelled in brightly colored wagons, pulled by muscular draught horses, but their modern counterparts opted for trailers and RVs of various ages and sizes. At least two dozen had been parked here only a few hours ago in what Cas had described as a bustling campsite. Now, only one remained – a vintage Coldstream, rust poking through its silver paint as battle scars of its many years on the road. Whatever truck or car had pulled it to the clearing had vanished with the rest of the trailers.

The grass in the clearing was well-flattened, suggesting heavy foot traffic. Thin tendrils of smoke still rising from the charred circle in the center, the remains of a communal firepit, said the occupants hadn't been gone long, as did the maze of tire tracks criss-crossing the muddy ground. Clothing hanging to dry on a line stretched between two trees, a shoe, a pot, a child's toy and other belongings all strewn across the ground suggested the gypsies had left in a hurry.

Bobby looked back at Sam with a questioning shrug. Sam just shook his head: he had no idea what had happened.

Dean gave his arm a tug, clearly wanting an update.

"I dunno, Dean. There's no one around. There's just one trailer left."

Bobby signalled that he was going to check out the camp.

Sam nodded. "Bobby's going in. Come on, I need to cover him."

They moved forward stealthily until they were about twenty feet from the lone trailer, but still in the cover of the trees. Then, just as Bobby was about to move into the open, Dean yanked on Sam's arm, abruptly pulling him down. In front of them, Bobby dropped, too, turning to Sam quickly and raising a finger to his lips. The two of them had obviously heard something.

Bobby pointed to the right side of the trailer.

Following his signal, Sam saw a lone figure appear from behind the trailer and begin walking toward them. Her style of dress said she was a gypsy.

Dean yanked again on Sam's arm, his expression a clear demand to know what was going on.

"Gypsy woman, about thirty feet out…walking towards us," Sam whispered – or what he hoped was a whisper. Not being able to hear made it incredibly hard to gauge volume, but he must have succeeded because he got a curt nod of acknowledgement from Dean without any accompanying 'shut the hell up' smack.

They stayed hidden as the woman approached. She appeared to be in her sixties, her long, dark hair streaked through with gray and pulled into a loose bun at the base of her neck. She wore large, silver hoop earrings, a long, brightly colored skirt topped by a black blouse and a black shawl, and around her neck hung several necklaces, holding a variety of charms.

She moved at a steady pace and, with her feet hidden beneath her long skirt, almost seemed to float along the muddy ground. About six feet from the tree-line, she stopped and pulled a knife from her pocket, using it to slash her palm. Then, she opened a small pouch hanging from a cord around her neck, dumped the contents into her hand and curled her bloody fingers around them while muttering something under her breath. Then, she looked into the woods, directly at where Sam and Dean were crouched. "You are wise to be cautious, but it's not from me you need to hide."

Sam's eyes widened. He heard the woman's heavily accented words clearly. _Heard_ them. Then, he frowned. She was speaking, but her mouth wasn't moving. She seemed to be communicating with him telepathically.

He winced as Dean's grip on his arm tightened, but his eyes widened further when, for the first time since the previous day, he heard Dean's familiar, deep voice.

"Who's that, and why the hell is she in my head?"

Okay, apparently Dean could hear her, too.

"My name is Magda." The gypsy walked forward several feet and smiled. "This… this is better than relying on your friend over there to write notes, no?"

Sam winced as Dean's grip tightened further, the bruising hold clearly telegraphing his brother's unease over this latest turn of events. Still, whatever this Magda had done, there was no sense in hiding: she knew exactly where they were. Bobby had obviously come to the same conclusion, since he stood up at the same time Sam rose and hauled up Dean with him.

The gypsy continued walking toward them, her smile turning bemused as she took in the shotgun Bobby had pointed at her. "I am not your enemy. I come to warn you…to make amends."

Now Sam heard Bobby's voice.

"Make amends for what?"

Magda looked down at her bloody fingers. "I am the one who cursed you." She held up her hand. "But through that curse, we are connected by blood. So, now, we can talk like this, you can talk with each other, and I can tell you how to reverse this."

Bobby chambered his shotgun and held it steady on the gypsy. "Lady, _helping_ us by cursing us…that's the biggest load of bull crap I-"

"You wanna help us, fix us." Dean was equally pissed. "Now. Then we'll chat – you know, the kind where our mouths move."

Magda turned toward Dean. "The power to fix you is no longer mine. Only you can break the curse, but you already know this. I used poppets, and they are here." The gypsy's expression remained neutral. "Know that I was honor-bound to repay a debt, and that this curse was the price. I have no quarrel with you."

"Yeah, we heard a witch asked for a favour." Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "You couldn't just tell her we were at the Colonial over on Route 6? Leave us to duke it out when they showed up? Trust me, I like our odds."

The gypsy shook her head "You use hexbags which meant you were masked to me, besides, I did not wish to provoke a confrontation. You are hunters. I knew you would piece together the puzzle, seek me out and I could deliver the means to undo this hex."

It was getting harder for Dean to curb his temper. "Lady, I'm blind because of you. Give us the damn dolls so we can fix this."

Magda expression became troubled. "I realized too late I made an error in judgment… I underestimated Serena, the lengths to which she would go."

Sam frowned. "Who's Serena?"

Magda sighed. "A young witch hungry for power, for place. She is the one who demanded the life debt, the debt which set these events in motion. You must take care. She-"

Sam shifted impatiently. "We'll handle the witch. Just give us the poppets and-"

Sam jerked sideways when Dean was yanked from his arm, thrown through air and into a tree about fifteen feet away. He hit hard, his sunglasses went flying and he crumpled to the ground, where he didn't move.

"Dean!" Sam glared at Magda as he ran to his brother, but the gypsy was no longer alone. Standing in the open doorway of the trailer behind her was a young blonde, who would be pretty if it wasn't for the twisted sneer on her face. Sam recognized her; she was the witch he'd tangled with after the summoning ceremony, the one who'd used a tree branch as a baseball bat on his leg and then his head. That was Serena.

As he ran, she pulled a white cotton doll from a satchel slung over her shoulder, looked directly at him, then gave the leg of the doll a vicious twist.

Sam yelled out as searing pain ripped through his left leg. The limb buckled and he collapsed, slamming his head into a large tree root as he hit the ground. The fall jarred loose his gun from his hand and it skittered across the forest floor stopping well out of reach.

Bobby turned his shotgun on the witch and fired, but the shot slammed into the trailer door which she used as a shield. He chambered another round and moved to the left for a better vantage point, but startled when a red-headed woman stepped out from behind a tree directly in front of him, blowing a handful of dust in his face. Bobby coughed, staggered, then collapsed to the ground.

Magda was staring at Serena, guilt painted across her face. "This is my fault. I am empowering her to do this." She looked over at Sam who had dragged himself to Dean's side. "I must go. Only this way can I protect you. I am sorry."

Sam wasn't listening. He had reached his brother, who still wasn't moving. He swallowed against the nauseating pain in his leg, then pressed his fingers against Dean's neck in search of a pulse. He found one, but relief quickly turned to rage as he looked up at the young witch.

She was alone now by the trailer. There was no sign of the old gypsy.

Serena walked toward the treeline and Sam, her smirk widening as she came closer. The doll was in her left hand but, as she reached his side, her right hand slipped into her jacket pocket.

"What the hell are you-" was all he got out before she pulled out her hand, unfurled it and blew dust all over Sam. Instantly he was dizzy, a sickly sweet taste filling his mouth. His vision swam and then went black.

**xxxXXXxxx**

There were many mornings Bobby woke up cursing the effects of age, although drinking and hunting were much more likely to be the causes of his routine aches and pains.

He groaned as he moved, wishing he could remember the bender that had him feeling like he'd been through the crusher at the wrecking yard, but his eyes snapped open when he realized his hands were tied behind his back.

Okay. Unless this was Tijuana, that ruled out a bender.

He didn't move, but glanced around him. He was lying next to the firepit in the centre of the abandoned gypsy camp. Mud caking his clothes said he'd been dragged there. The redhead who'd blown the dust in his face and the blonde witch were now huddled together on the far side of the firepit, whispering animatedly as they flipped through a large, leather-bound book. They blurred in the heat haze of a robust fire now burning in the pit, the wood feeding it crackling and spitting loudly, the flames leaping high into the air.

Bobby glanced to his left and his gut twisted. Sam and Dean both lay on the ground in front of a large log that had likely been used as a fireside bench. Dean was on his stomach, his face pressed into the mud his hands tied much like Bobby's.

Sam lay jackknifed beside his brother – half on his side, half on his stomach. He was similarly trussed up and, while his hair had fallen across his face, there appeared to be blood smeared across his forehead and temple.

There was no sign of Magda the gypsy.

A slight movement caught Bobby's eye and he realized that Sam was coming to. As consciousness returned, the youngest Winchester's face crumpled in pain.

"Sam? You hear me?"

Sam groaned. "Yeah, don't talk so loud."

"I ain't talking, kid." Bobby glanced over at the witches, but they were still too engrossed in their conversation to notice that the hunters were conscious. "We've got two witches at twelve o'clock but there's no sign of Magda. Her spell is still working, though. We're still hearing each other's thoughts."

"Then don't think so loud." That was from Dean.

Sam snapped his head towards his brother. "Hey. How you doing? You hit that tree pretty damn hard."

"I know, Sam. I was there." Dean's only movement was a grimace. "Someone give me a 4-1-1 while I figure out what's working and what isn't."

"We're in the middle of the gypsy camp, by the firepit." Bobby looked over at their captors. "The witches are reading some old book, and I'd bet my salvage yard it's a spellbook." He glanced around. "They've set the fire, too, and something tells me they ain't planning s'mores and a rousing chorus of Kum bay ah."

Sam was watching the witches, too. "The blonde one is Serena, the one Magda said was behind all this. Not sure how she got'em, but she has the poppets. Well, mine anyway. She twisted the leg on it and…son of a bitch." Sam hissed against the pain as he shifted his weight.

Worry creased Dean's face. "She broke your leg?"

"No…don't think so." Sam winced as he tried to straighten his leg, "but it's messed up." He looked over at Dean. "She likely has your doll, too. She-"

"Dude." Dean scowled. "Can we not call it my_ doll_."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Since they don't get their powers back 'til after midnight, I'm guessing she used the poppet to throw you into that tree. Don't know about Bobby's. He-"

"You're awake." Serena was staring at them from the far side of the fire. She stood up and began walking towards them. "It's about time. I'd like to get our business wrapped up before midnight."

Bobby groaned as he sat up. "That when turn back into a pumpkin?" He shot a look at the redhead. "And your BFF there into a rat."

Serena smiled. "Now, don't you be badmouthing Claire. She's a good witch and a loyal friend. All my other sisters, all those who think they're better, stronger than me – where are they? Hiding until their powers return. But not Claire. She believed me when I said I could track you down, shut out your guardian angel and make you pay for ruining our plans…" She reached Dean's side and studied him suspiciously as he played possum. "Even without my powers." She kicked Dean viciously in the lower back.

Dean bit his lip to stifle a groan and turned his head toward her voice. "Serena the teenage bitch, I presume?"

Serena smiled. "The demon I summoned told me you were the smartass of the trio." She chuckled. "Oh, don't look so surprised. Anyone can summon a demon, right? You're proof of that."

She crouched down beside him, speaking in stage whisper. "But don't tax your tiny brain trying to recite an exorcism. There's no demon aboard. I'm picky about who rides with me."

"Oh, I'm not taxing anything, sweetheart. I know damn well there's no demon." Dean grinned. "Thanks to us, your meatsuit's barren for good."

Serena's smug smile vanished. "Magda wanted us to believe you poisoned us, made us unfit to be hosts, but I don't buy it."

"Oh, trust me, you bought it - hook, line and sinker." Dean leaned forward, speaking in the same stage whisper. "And you really should be thanking us. I mean, seriously, how nuts do you have to be to _want _to be possessed?"

"I wouldn't expect someone with your limited intelligence to understand," Serena scoffed, "but this was no ordinary possession. It was the birth of a new race, one that humans, angels and beasts alike would fear."

Dean snorted. "Hate to break it to you, sister, but the minute that demon crawled up your skirt, you were done. No demon's gonna sub-let when he can have the whole place to himself."

"You're wrong." Serena pulled a knife from a holster on her hip, grabbed Dean by the hair and shoved the tip of the knife into his throat. "And if you want to hang on to the tiniest hope of getting out of here alive, tell me how to reverse the spell."

Dean winced as the knife pressed harder against his Adam's apple. "No can do. The spell was an Angel special, irreversible. No refunds, no exchanges.

Serena stared at Dean's sightless gaze for a moment, then glanced over at Sam. "Maybe you'd change your answer if I started cutting pieces off your brother. What will it take, huh? One finger, or ten? An ear? An eye?"

"You touch Sam with that knife and I will haunt you in this life and the next," Dean growled, all vestiges of his joking demeanor disappearing the second she threatened his brother.

"Just calm down." Sam had followed the exchange thanks to Bobby. "Dean can't give you what doesn't exist. It doesn't matter what you do to me or any of us. The spell can't be reversed. It's meant as permanent protection. In time, you'll see it's a good thing. You-"

"A good thing?" Serena pointed her knife at Sam, her hand shaking. "Only to those too small-minded to see the true potential of what we would become." She stood up slowly, shock giving way to rage. "But, if what you say is true, then I have no further use for you."

She glanced over at Claire. "Fetch me the poppets."

Claire nodded, picked up a satchel and withdrew three simple, cotton dolls – the poppets. She dumped the satchel and carried the dolls to Serena, who took one, studied it for a moment and then looked over at Dean. "I threw this one against a tree and you flew through the air with the greatest of ease." She took a second one from Claire and turned her attention to Sam. "I twisted the leg on this one and, timber, down you went." She chuckled as she turned to Bobby. "Feeling left out? The only one I didn't test was yours. I think it's time to change that."

Serena reached for the third poppet but Claire held on to it. "Let me do it."

For a moment Serena looked surprised, but then she nodded. "Be my guest." As Claire turned toward Bobby, Serena grabbed her by the arm. "They have no information we need, so don't hold back."

"Now just hold on a minute." Dean strained against the ropes holding him. "Sam, she's gonna kill Bobby."

"What?" Sam's gaze jumped between Bobby and the witch as she held up the doll. "No. Don't do it."

Claire seemed to hesitate for a second, until Serena came up beside her and squeezed her arm reassuringly. Then, she nodded, grabbed the poppet by the head, and twisted it, snapping its neck.

"No!" Sam's chest was heaving as he watched Bobby flinch. "Bobby!"

Bobby screwed his eyes closed, Sam's horrified shout echoing through his head. But there was no intense pain, no loss of awareness, nothing but Dean's tense voice, desperate to know what had happened.

"What? What did she do?"

Bobby opened his eyes slowly, breathing heavily.

Sam was staring at him in shock. "He's…okay, Dean. He's okay. It didn't work."

Dean's head dropped forward in relief, but then he turned toward Sam. "But why not? I mean, thank God, but it sure as hell worked on you and me. Why not Bobby?"

Claire seemed equally shocked. "Why? Why didn't it work?"

Serena stared at Bobby for a moment, then snatched the poppet from Claire. She reached for the lapel of her jacket and pulled out a long, straight pin – a hat pin if Bobby had to hazard a guess – and stabbed it straight through the heart of the doll.

Bobby's heart skipped a beat, figuratively, even sped up a little, but otherwise kept right on pumping.

Serena's bewilderment was quickly building into fury. "No. No. This should work. This should work." She turned and grabbed one of the other poppets, and drove the pin through its heart.

Bobby's worried gaze jumped between the brothers. "Sam? Dean?"

Sam swallowed and nodded. "M'okay."

"Ditto." Dean looked puzzled. "But what did she do?"

Bobby shook his head. "The fact that you're asking me that is really good thing. Bottom line – none of the poppets are working for her any more."

Sam frowned. "Are they gonna work for us? To fix us, I mean."

Bobby exhaled slowly. "I sure as hell hope we get a chance to find out. Blondie over there looks like she's about to blow a gasket."

Indeed, Serena was livid. Eyes narrowed, she stared at each of the three men in turn. "What did you do? How did you sever the bond?" She was pacing back and forth in front of them. "No. Never mind. It doesn't matter. You took my powers, you hid from me, you got help from an angel, from a gypsy witch – but you couldn't beat me. Who still has the upper hand, huh? Me." Her eyes glittered feverishly as she turned to Claire. "We'll use Magda's spellbook."

Claire's eyes widened. "You sure we should, for something this big? We're still new to-"

"Yes, I'm sure." Serena smiled. "Now's the perfect time to experiment." She hooked her arm through Claire's, pulling her to the far side of the firepit where they'd left the book.

After the failure with the poppets, Claire seemed much less confident than before. "Let's just wait until midnight, when we get our own powers back. Then we can take care of them with magic we know will work instead of flying blind."

Serena grabbed Claire by the shoulders, squeezing hard. "The sleeping powder worked, didn't it? The power of suggestion spell to make every gypsy in this camp pack up and leave? Like a charm. We summoned a demon, angel-proofed this place and captured ourselves three hunters." Her smile grew manic. "If we can do all that now, just think what we'll be able to do when our powers return. We've gotta see how far we can take this before we go back to the coven."

Claire glanced over at the hunters. "And if something goes wrong?"

"What if it does?" Serena shrugged. "That's the point of an experiment, right? To see what works, what doesn't. These hunters, they're just our lab rats, nothing more."

Claire didn't seem entirely convinced but she nodded slowly. Serena grabbed the spellbook. "Come on. Let's see what we can try with the supplies we have on hand."

Dean shook his head. "Man, this chick is bat-shit crazy. Why do we always get the Looney-Tunes, huh?"

Bobby strained against the ropes binding his wrists. "Either of you two having any luck getting loose?"

Sam kept his focus on the witches. "I've got a bit of give, but it's gonna be a while before I'm free."

Dean swung his legs toward Sam. "If Bobby gave us a distraction, think you could get the knife from my ankle holster?"

"Yeah," Sam glanced at Bobby, "except your knife is on the other side of the fire with our guns, our wallets, our phones..."

"They take everything?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Everything in our pockets... including the mirrors."

"Son of a bitch." Dean kicked the ground in frustration. "So we've got just one line of defense left. Damn, Bobby, it better work."

Bobby shrugged. "I'm guessing we're about to find out."

Dean dropped his head as he strained to listen to the witches' conversation. "What are they doing now?"

"Serena's coming over here. Claire's mixing some stuff from their bag in a bowl." Sam shifted slightly to keep his hands hidden from Serena as he worked on the ropes, wincing when the movement jarred his injured leg.

Serena stopped in front of them, the large battered book open to a page somewhere in the middle. "We've made our choice. It's an interesting spell. When used with white magic, it bestows the wisdom of age upon the recipient. But when conducted with black magic, it bestows… age." She smiled. "Rapid, extreme aging, resulting in death."

Dean shook his head. "Been there, done that, got the freaking Zantac to prove it. You can't come up with something original?"

Serena moved in front of Dean. "Your only use to us now is to help us know how big we can go with this gypsy magic. Angelic sigils? That's kindergarten stuff. Sleeping powders and power of suggestion spells? Grade school." Her eyes narrowed. "Now we're looking at a little post-grad work."

"What did I tell you?" Dean muttered. "Bat. Shit. Crazy."

Claire rejoined Serena. She held a small ceramic bowl containing the herb mixture she'd blended a few moments earlier. "I'm all set."

Serena smiled. "Good. We have the flames, we have the herbs, now we just need the blood." She offered Claire her knife. "You wanna do the honors?"

Claire hesitated for a moment, then nodded and took the knife.

Bobby was still struggling to free himself. "How you doing with the ropes, Sam?"

"Working on it." Sam shook his head. "They may be crazy but they tie a damn good knot. Look out, Claire's coming this way." He twisted his wrists to make the slackened ropes look less obvious.

Claire stepped behind Dean.

He tilted his head. "What the hell's she – son of bitch!" He swore as she shoved up his jacket sleeve and sliced the blade through his forearm, catching the blood that ran from the long cut in the ceramic bowl.

"Such a baby," Serena hissed, as she watched Claire work. "Maybe with your brother, we should take it from the jugular. Or the femoral. Got a preference?"

Even blind, Dean's death stare was impressive. "Bite me."

Serena chuckled. "Could be fun, but a little messy. Think we'll stick with the knife."

Claire moved behind Sam.

Bobby frowned. He could tell by the way Sam's upper body had tensed that he was planning something. "Sam? What-" He didn't get a chance to finish his query.

As Claire shoved up his sleeve to cut his arm, Sam jerked his arms upwards, trying to get the knife to slice through the ropes. He may have partially succeeded, but Bobby also saw blood before Claire jammed the long edge of the blade under Sam's chin against his throat.

"Hold still."

"Don't provoke her." Bobby shook his head as Sam looked over at him. "Let her do what she has to. We've still got one more card to play."

Reluctantly, Sam held still as Claire stepped behind him, wincing as she again slashed at his arm, this time a little deeper than necessary. When she was done, she did the same to Bobby, then moved back to Serena's side.

The two crossed to the far side of the fire where Serena added oil from a blue glass bottle to the mix. She nodded, pleased. "Now pour it into the fire."

Claire did so, and the flames flared, turning bright red for a moment, before settling down and reverting to a deep orange.

Serena smiled, then held her hand out to Claire. "Okay, slash my fingers." In answer to Claire's puzzled look, she added. "We're reading the spell. We have to add our blood to create the connection between us and them. Do it."

Claire dragged the knife across Serena's fingers, far more gently than she had with any of the hunters, and then her own. They each held a hand over the fire, allowing the blood to drip in. Once again, the flames flared briefly.

Serena turned the spellbook so Claire could also see the open page. "Read this with me."

Together the two women read the spell.

Heart racing, Bobby listened carefully. He didn't recognize the language but that didn't surprise him. It was a Romany spell; the Roma people were nomadic, speaking hundreds of dialects, each borrowing words from the places they passed through, everything from Hindu and Bengali to Persian, Polish and Slovakian. He had to give the witches credit: they didn't stumble over the words, but worked effortlessly through the difficult passage.

And then they were done.

Serena looked at each of the hunters in turn, smiling triumphantly. The smile faded when nothing happened.

"Why isn't it working?" Claire asked. "Did we do something wrong?"

"No. No." Serena scanned the spellbook, and shook her head. "We did everything right. It should-" The wind picked up suddenly, and her smile returned. "And it is. Here we go."

Bobby ducked his head as the wind blew through the clearing, swirling around them like a mini-tornado, picking up dirt and debris with each pass. He felt his joints stiffen and his eyesight grow fuzzy. He risked a glance at the brothers. Sam's head was hanging forward, his eyes screwed shut, but his dark hair was now streaked through with gray. Likewise, Dean's hair was turning white at the temples and steel gray on top. The healthy cast of their skin had dulled and wrinkles deeply etched their faces.

Inside his head, Dean's voice sounded tired. "What the hell, Bobby? This wasn't supposed to work. Why aren't-"

The fire exploded suddenly, sending flame and sparks shooting high into the sky. The two witches stumbled backwards in surprise. Then, the wind died out, leaving the clearing in silence broken only by the labored breathing of the five occupants.

Bobby glanced up to see Sam staring at him in shock. Since he felt Methuselah's younger brother, he realized he likely looked like it, too.

With a roar, the wind picked up again, this time swirling in the opposite direction, faster and stronger than ever, scrubbing the earth beneath it and snatching up anything that wasn't fastened down. Bobby saw the witches grab onto each other to stop from being knocked over.

But then the ache in Bobby's bones began to recede and the tightness in his chest dissipate. He squinted over at the brothers. Sam's hair was still being whipped around by the wind but, as he watched, the grey faded, replaced by familiar brown and, beneath it, wrinkles softened restoring the unblemished skin of youth. Beside him, Dean once again looked like himself instead of his own grandfather.

Then, the spell's tornado shifted and narrowed. Instead of encompassing the whole clearing, it now circled only the two witches. Faster and faster it turned, seemingly aging them a year with each pass. They clung to each other screaming as their hair coarsened and grayed, their skin dulled and wrinkled, their bodies weakened and deformed. But still the wind was unsated, relentlessly gorging itself on the two women, mercilessly scrubbing skin from bone and turning bone to ash until dust was all that was left. Then that, too, was swept away by the wind.

Then the wind gone, the witches screams faded, and the three hunters were alone. There was no sign anywhere that the witches had ever existed.

In the sudden quiet Bobby could hear his own rapid breathing. He turned quickly to Sam and Dean. "Boys?"

Sam coughed, then nodded. "I'm, uh, good. Dean?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On whether I need to be shopping for Depends."

Sam shook his head. "Your sense of humor is as juvenile as ever, but you're the right age." He glanced down at his shirt. "The buttons worked. Good call, Bobby."

It was their last line of defense. Bobby had bought three purse-sized mirrors from the drug store but, concerned that they might get lost, broken or, as it turned out, taken from them, he wanted something more. Walking through the notions aisle, he'd noticed a card of shirt buttons hanging among all the basic sewing supplies. They were black with mirrored centers, likely a leftover from the seventies disco era and tacky as hell, but they were just what the witch doctor ordered. Sam and Bobby had sewed them on to each of their shirts with suture thread just before leaving the motel room. Hidden under their jackets, they'd gone unnoticed when the witches emptied their pockets.

"Yeah, that's another one we owe you." Dean spat out a mouthful of dirt. "So, Lady Heckle and Lady Jeckle, they're…"

"Dust." Sam resumed the struggle to free himself. "That spell aged them till there was nothing left."

"May they rest in pieces." Dean was trying to free himself, too. "Can either of you get to my knife so we cast our own spell and get back to normal?"

"Hold on." Sam grunted as he gave the rope another tug. "Claire nicked the rope when she cut my arm. Just gimme…" He strained against the rope again and it snapped. "There. I'm out."

Bobby surveyed the clearing. The wind had scattered their belonging, the witches' ... His heart started racing when he realized what else was gone. "Son of a bitch."

"What?" Sam glanced at Bobby as he dragged himself to Dean's side to untie him.

Bobby exhaled slowly. "The poppets…they're gone."

"Gone?" The panic in Dean's voice was evident. "What do you mean, gone?"

"That little windstorm the witches cooked up picked up anything not nailed down." Bobby began sidling his way toward the brothers. "But press pause on the panic. The wind was spinning in a circle – they can't have gone far. Step one, we get free. Step two, we start looking."

**xxxXXXxxx**

Once free, Bobby had gone on a scavenger hunt. He'd found the first poppet relatively quickly, trapped under a bush, but the other two had taken a while longer to locate. In between, he picked up three wallets, with most of their contents intact, their guns, knives and two of their three phones. Sam's was DOA after a collision with a tree.

The sun was low in the sky by the time he had all three poppets and was seated with the brothers, ready to read the Reversal of Misfortune spell.

Dean shifted impatiently as he tightly gripped the poppet Bobby had given him. He was tired of being in the dark; tired of not being able to tell for himself how bad off Sam was, since all he got from his brother was 'I'm fine;' tired of communicating with Sam and Bobby telepathically instead of actually talking to them. He ran his fingers over the doll. "How do we know this is mine?"

"It's yours, Dean." Sam's voice was tight as he tried, and failed, to mask his discomfort. "The blood streak is over the eyes. On mine it's over the ears and on Bobby's over the mouth. We're all good. You ready?"

"I was born ready. Let's go."

Together, they recited the spell they'd memorized back at the motel. It was short, relatively simple and they were done quickly. Then Bobby took the three poppets and tossed them into the fire. They sat on the embers untouched for a moment and then burst into blue flame.

Dean was seated on the ground, his back against one of the log benches that circled the firepit, facing away from the setting sun. He blinked, and looked around but everything was still black. His heart started racing. "Still can't see… The damn dolls didn't work for the witches…what if they don't work for us?"

"Just give it time." Bobby's voice was annoyingly calm. "Magda said it would work. We've gotta hold on to that."

Dean's patience had long been used up. "The gypsy did this to us in the first place, she showed up here at the same time as those witches and didn't stick around to stop them or help us. That doesn't exactly put her at the top of my trust list. She-" He screwed his eyes closed when a sharp pain pierced his skull."

"Dean?"

Dean felt dizzy and sick to his stomach, but when he opened his eyes, he no longer saw just pitch black; there were swirls of shadow and light. He blinked and the indeterminate shapes began to separate and solidify. Another blink and the shadows began to take on form and features.

"Third time's the charm," he muttered, and blinked again. When he opened his eyes this time, the hazy world slowly slid into focus.

Bobby was crouched in front of him, staring at him worriedly. "Kid?"

Dean smiled. "I see you, Bobby. You're a long way from a sexy blue alien, but I _see_ you." He grabbed his old friend by the vest. "We're just talking, too. You're not in my head."

"Nope." Bobby grinned and clapped Dean on the side of the face. "Not really my kinda hangout, long-term anyway."

"You two wanna keep it down."

Dean's smile widened as he turned towards his brother. "Sammy? You hearing this?"

"Every sappy word." Sam sat on the ground, a few feet from Dean.

Dean's smile faded as he got his first good look at Sam. His brother was pale, with blood caked across his forehead and temple and all down his right arm. Like Dean, he sat on the ground, his left leg bent, his right leg stuck out awkwardly. "Dude, you're a mess."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Pot-kettle, Dean."

"Whatever." He hauled himself closer to Sam. "I can see, Sammy."

Sam smiled tiredly. "Yeah. It's good, huh?" He shook his head. "The things we take for granted."

Dean's face crumpled with concern. "Just hang in there, okay? Me and Bobby, we'll destroy some of these sigils, get Cas down here. He can-"

"Dean, no." Sam shook his head. "He's an angel, not a paramedic. I'm not on death's door here, I'm just a little banged up. We'll take care of this ourselves."

Dean didn't look convinced.

Bobby stood over the two of them. "I checked out Sam's leg. It ain't broken, but he's not up for a trek back to the car. You stay with him, I'll bring the car here."

"Sounds like a plan." Dean nodded his thanks, and Bobby headed off toward the gravel logging road that led into the clearing.

Sam glanced around the deserted camp. "Serena said something about casting a power of suggestion spell. That's what got all the gypsies to leave, right?"

Dean shrugged. "Think so. Why?"

Sam nodded toward the one remaining trailer. "Why's that one still here?"

Dean frowned as he studied the old Coldstream. "Good question." He pushed himself to his feet with a groan, his back loudly reminding him of his recent collision with the tree, and picked up his gun. "I'll go check it out."

"Help me up." Sam held up his hand. "I'm coming with."

"Dude, no." Dean shook his head. "Stay put. You-"

But Sam was already struggling to get himself to his feet.

Dean tucked his gun in the waistband of his jeans and moved in to help, pulling Sam's arm across his shoulders. "You're a stubborn son of a bitch."

Sam grinned. "Had a good teacher."

"Whatever." Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's waist and they began limping toward the trailer.

They approached in silence. Dean peeked through the windows as they moved toward the door but, thanks to tinting, he could see nothing inside. At the door, he let go of Sam, leaving him leaning against the trailer, and pulled out his gun. He shrugged in response to Sam's questioning look, yanked open the door and charged inside, weapon raised.

Dean looked to his left, then his right. Staring into the main section of the trailer, his eyes widened.

"What? Dean, what?" When Dean didn't answer, Sam hauled himself up the trailer steps and through the door. Following Dean's line of sight, he inhaled sharply.

Magda the gypsy sat at the small table, eyes open in an unseeing stare and her throat slit.

"Son of a…" Dean lowered his gun, moved to her side and pressed his fingers into the side of her neck in search of a pulse. He shook his head. "She's gone. Don't need two guesses to figure out who did this, but when? When they knocked us out?"

Sam frowned as he studied Magda. "Don't think so. Look at the discolouration of her skin, the way the blood's clotted." He gently lifted her arm and lowered it again. "She's coming out of rigor, not going into it, which means she's been dead more than 12 hours." He swallowed as he looked up at Dean. "She was already dead when she came to us out there."

"Damn." Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "You'd think after all these years, we'd recognize a freaking ghost when we saw one."

Sam shrugged. "There was no flicker, no popping in and out...None of the usual signs. I didn't see her leave…I was kinda focused on you."

"And I was kinda focused on hitting that tree." Dean glanced around and grabbed a dish cloth draped over the edge of the tiny sink and began wiping down anywhere they'd touched. He stopped suddenly and looked over at Sam. "Was she still there when that witch used the poppet to screw up your leg?"

Sam nodded.

"And she was there when I hit the tree – the last two times the poppets worked for Serena."

Sam raked his fingers through his hair. "Remember what she said, she could communicate with us, link us telepathically because we were connected by blood – her blood that she'd used to mark the poppets." He closed his eyes, fighting to remember the last thing she'd said to them. "She said 'I must go, it's the only way I can protect you.'" He looked over at Dean. "Her spirit stuck around to apologize for what she'd done and make sure we knew about the poppets…"

"But it was also powering those damn dolls, meaning the witches could tap into it and use them against us." Dean looked from Sam to Magda. "But when she let go, moved on, it severed the connection. That's why Heckle and Jeckle couldn't get them to work after she left the building."

He frowned. "But if her dying severed the link with the poppets, how were we still able to communicate telepathically?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm no expert in Romany magic but, if I had to guess, I'd say it was for the same reason the hex didn't die with her. It was part of a direct link between the dolls and us. I'm just glad Serena didn't toss the poppets in the fire. I hate to think – gah." He grabbed hold of the kitchen counter to save himself when his leg threatened to give way.

"Okay, that's it." Dean motioned for Sam to leave. "Let's get you outta here before you fall down."

Sam nodded, hobbling through the trailer and pushing open the door, before moving slowly down the steps. He squinted against the setting sun, which hit him full face through a dip in the treeline, and stumbled on the last step, saving himself only with a frantic grab for the door.

"Sammy?"

Sam exhaled slowly, carefully balancing himself on his good leg. "M'okay."

"Okay my ass. You're like freaking Bambi on ice." Dean took one last glance around, then followed Sam out, wiping down the inside of the door before slamming it shut. He ran the cloth over the outer handle, then turned toward Sam, shaking his head when he caught Sam's grin. "Don't give me crap about how I know about Bambi. You're the one who made me watch all those Disney movies when you were a kid."

"Made you, huh?" Sam's grin widened as he pointed a finger at Dean's shirt. "But it's not that. You're, um, sparkling."

Dean looked down. Coming down the steps, his jacket had blown open, exposing the mirrored buttons on his shirt, which now reflected the setting sun. "Oh, that is just…wrong." He grabbed the tail of his shirt and moved to yank off a button.

"Dean, don't."

Dean scowled at Sam. "Why the hell not?"

Sam shrugged. "You pull them off, there's a bigger chance of losing them before we get outta here. This is a murder scene. We don't wanna be leaving evidence behind."

Sam had a point. "Fine." Dean jabbed a finger at his brother. "But, back at the motel, you're pulling them off and sewing the real ones back on."

Sam shook his head. "No way. Bobby and me sewed them on cause you couldn't see. Next round is yours."

"I don't think so." Dean pulled Sam's arm over his shoulders and wrapped an arm around his waist to support him on the walk back to the clearing. "I sew skin, not buttons."

Sam just grinned as they limped away from the trailer. "Fine, then. Keep right on sparkling."

"Screw that, Sammy." Dean smiled when heard the distinctive rumble of the Impala's engine, as the Chevy turned off the road and drove towards them. "Twilight douchebags sparkle. Dean Winchester doesn't."

**Finis**

**A/N: **_Thanks so much for reading. I'd love to hear what you think. Feedback from readers is better than cookies, and a lot better for you! Until next time, cheers!_


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